


rule #2 of any game

by CampionSayn



Series: February Prompts 2020 [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Actual consequences, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archivist!Aziraphale, Heaven doesn't treat Aziraphale very well in this, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Multi, Prince of Hell!Crowley, References to Depression, So same shit As Always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:34:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22597129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampionSayn/pseuds/CampionSayn
Summary: "I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear." --Martin Luther King, Jr.Heaven and Hell decide to reward and punish a snake and an angel, respectively, for the incident with the apple and the flaming sword.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: February Prompts 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621750
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	rule #2 of any game

There had to be consequences, Aziraphale knew this, and accepted.

A hundred years go back rather more quickly in the solitude of Limbo, where all part and parcels of every written document ever scratched, scribbled or plagiarized found its way into the filing system.

He'd read every piece that had ever appeared. Sometimes once, sometimes up to fifty times.

Especially the reports Gabriel sent up from Earth, once a year, every year since he'd been placed to the sphere of their Mother's creation, watching over humanity, trying to push it in the right direction.

Gabriel was good enough to favor Aziraphale with very detailed footnotes on his reports, which were welcome and necessary as Aziraphale had been in the confines of The Archives since Michael had found out what had happened to his flaming sword.

This Aziraphale did not have the luxury of regret; it was the right thing to do.

How was he to know what there was to be missing, when there was nothing else but this, high walls of solitary, endless papers he knew but sight, sent, touch; only really able to leave for the Great Halls when Heaven and Hell took one day of every hundred years to…

Well, Gabriel said it was called "mingle" but that didn't sound right, as angels and demons, every time without fail, mostly kept on one side of the aisle or the other. They kept to their own kind and the refreshments served to each of them.

Only four seemed willing to bridge the gap every time, and always with all others following suit to, for lack of a better term, one-up the odd ones out.

This Aziraphale always looked forward to these times above all else, even though his curiosity and enjoyment were always joined and dimmed by shame.

It was a shame he could have shouldered, though, if he was allowed to go.

He huffed, wet and grating from the furthest room in the back of the Archives, where he was allowed to rest when not going over and organizing and replying to the files. Barely a nook, where he sometimes sat on what could have been a bed, a chair, a sofa, a bench depending on his whims and mood.

Wings-what was left of what had been six, now only two-flopped listlessly on either side of him. His body heavy where most other angels wouldn't even notice.

The molt was upon him, and he was in quite remarkable pain, unable to move very much without dropping clusters of blood caked feathers or breathing heavy like a marathon runner.

(Gabriel had explained to him what those were supposed to be and what they were supposed to do, but Aziraphale still didn't quite get it.)

He couldn't go to the Great Hall and see anyone this time.

It wasn't as though he was a stranger to disappointment, but his eyes still burned with salt water that poured down his face.

He hugged himself, fingers digging painfully into his body as if he could reach down beyond the corporeal and find himself again for the first time since the Beginning.

"Another hundred years of solitude, why not," he choked, pressing his forehead to his knees and not caring much at the noise he was making as nobody would be looking for him or hear him.

Like usual.

* * *

When old Lucifer himself handed Crawley-now-Crowley a crown and a title and a job in Hell that was cushy and came with a multitude of perks just because he'd been the one to point out that shiny red apple to the first humans, who was Crowley to refuse?

This Crowley absolutely understood regret. Almost the minute he took up that crown-now a slinky silver necklace that still held power but without the tacky look-and that title, he understood regret.

Sure, he was allowed to visit Earth and humanity and cause chaos of his own choice and design, but by Someone's sake the responsibility and the politics and just the whole lot of it was exhausting.

He was jealous so often of Beelzebub, which was why he preferred to visit the Earth based demon in person for their annual reports, rather than having them even bother putting pen to paper.

He observed the way the master of flies seemed to get on with the "enemy" Gabriel; how they would insult and insinuate and throw shade on him to anyone that would listen (Crowley) but never actually administered lasting harm against him. And after that bullshit war with the half-wit, idiot Nazis where Beelzebub saved the other idiot's ass, they seemed one bridge leap and smack to the head away from really, really being what Crowley hoped for.

This Crowley was pleased to see others happy when he couldn't be.

But not during the Annual Great Hall Meeting. Then he was pleased to see himself happy (enough) on visiting his own favorite person.

Probably the only time he really loosened up since the Flood.

Except the one he was usually next to the minute he entered the Hall wasn't waiting when Crowley entered, blue-black suit Bohemian and making him look gorgeous seeming like it would go to waste because Aziraphale WASN'T THERE.

Crowley swept his gaze from placid, content angel, to angel, to angel, bright yellow eyes almost glowing like cursed flame the more he looked. His wings were out, same as everyone else (basically what the humans called a dick measuring contest) and he had no care that his demon underlings were giving him a wider berth than usual.

Imagine, a demon prince desperate to see an angel that absolutely seemed to be the bottom of the pecking order. Feathers black as the abyss of space dotted white here and there like stars, and the very tips like the evening sun gone down in a grey winter sky-pulsing lighter and darker with his emotions.

Finally realizing Aziraphale really wasn't there in his usual physical manifestation, and he couldn't feel him like he did at every meeting before even crossing the Hall's threshold, Crowley turned cold fury down to a simmer to look at Gabriel.

Gabriel who had been talking to Beelzebub, but looked up almost the moment Crowley's gaze was upon him.

A survival mechanism his human body carried around, to be sure.

"Where is Aziraphale? Does he not know the Annual is today? Don't you usually inform him, or something?"

Now, this Gabriel is not an archangel, he is not that high up in the chain of command, and since he has actually been around humanity long enough to read telegraphing, he is not as blind or stupid as he could have been otherwise.

This Gabriel and this Beelzebub would have to save the world in some hundred years, after all. They need to have something resembling common sense and civility.

He also has self-preservation, because this Crowley is a prince of Hell that is competent, but prefers chaos to obvious evil and will probably unleash seventeen-hundred-thousand pranks and petty punishments up the Principality if he doesn't have some form of a truthful answer on his first word.

He knows, Beelzebub has bitched about the snake enough.

"Perhaps you should take a walk to the Archives?" Gabriel suggested, low in volume and eyes flicking from Crowley to Beelzebub, to Michael, to Hastur, "It's not technically against the rules, and at least you'll actually get to see Az...probably...if he's not hiding."

Yellow eyes narrowed, sharp and intense, but Beelzebub lifted a flute of the honeyed sugar water Gabriel had brought over for them and said casually, "I don't suppose you've ever seen him in molt before, my lord? Gabriel says it happens less often to angels than it does to demons, and usually only as often as required. I don't recall ever seeing the Archivist on Earth?"

And he hadn't. He'd been sentenced to the Archives in Limbo for as far back as Crowley had been bestowed power and useless platitudes from the demon hoards.

As long as Crowley had known him, now, Aziraphale had always had the same feathers because he'd literally never needed new ones for flying on the wind or transitioning from one plane of existence to the other.

This Crowley often felt more sick to his stomach at the way Heaven treated Aziraphale in general than he might have had the angel had any form of real agency. Or freedom at all.

As such, he had no problem hissing like a million-billion rattlesnakes, slamming his own flute glass of champagne onto the nearest table and taking the short route to the Archives.

Never mind the four grey-black feathers and eight black-and-white feathers he left on the carpet.

* * *

_"When a woman bends over, a man sees a jelly donut;_  
_Her head expands, his explodes:_  
_Dead On Arrival…"_

Still choking on sick and saliva that he shouldn't even produce because it wasn't necessary and it seemed petty to stick him with it on top of everything else being used to punish him, Aziraphale spat into the bin he'd miracled from his general office desk at the front of the Archives, blinking over at the figure that hadn't been there for more than a moment, but seemed comfortable enough.

Even sitting in the dregs of Aziraphale's molting, Crowley looked gorgeous and sure of himself, though perhaps a little less so than usual, given the poor lighting of Aziraphale's nook.

"Didn't think I'd catch you quoting lewd poetry you most certainly heard from Gabriel after hearing it from Beelzebub, Angel."

"I apologize, I'm a little not myself today. Just trying to keep myself awake, I think."

"You think?" Crowley repeated, dubious and raising his hands to touch the bleeding wings, but looking at Aziraphale for permission first.

Aziraphale nodded, blinking blearily up at the other and sighing deep at some of the pain ebbing as the demon (the one and only he trusted; person, not demon) started popping the old feathers out of their old lines and pricked at the bubbling skin where new, downy replacements tried to break free.

"I think. I'm supposed to be awake for this, aren't I?"

"If you want to," Crowley cringed, blood tacky under his fingers and making his skin crawl with the added feel of the heat coming from the other that most of demon and angel kind simply did not _do_ , "Though you don't have to. It's usually okay to sleep through this. Makes it more tolerable, anyway."

"Oh. I can sleep, then?"

"Yes, angel, you can sleep."

"But...isn't that terribly rude, to sleep when you came to visit?"

"I shall not be leaving. There's no rule against my being in the Archive, merely Heaven, unless it's during the Annual. I can stay until you wake up; if you'd like?"

Aziraphale smiled, true and kind and shining and so rare after thousands of years of being alone and being lonely, "I would like that very much, please."

Crowley smiled back, never mind that his heart was breaking at how pitifully grateful the angel was just to have someone willing to be near him, helping him, even when he wasn't aware, "Then I'll stay, Angel."


End file.
